The Photograph

He’s so lost in those eyes…it’s like he’d run straight into an oasis, a space where the world collapses into lushness, a place where time stood still and all he could do is stand in awe.

When a man has walked, stumbled, crawled and danced through the desert sands of his life, relief comes in small things. A shady place to rest his feet. A cool stream to quench his thirst. A light breeze to help him in his sleep. He doesn’t ask for much, and he finds satisfaction in the smallest morsels.

Where once he needed a jug of wine a simple glass of water will do. Where he once needed unending attention a simple glance will suffice. Where once it was demanded of him to change, acceptance from the souls around him will brighten up his day. There is no need for hours, he enjoys his seconds. There are no need for crowds, he enjoys his moments of solitude.

He breathes in her eyes, her smile. Through the crusty strands of hair a smile crests his lips. Through the caked on mud of time a light shines through his skin. A memory, announced by the mud-streaked path of a tear down his weathered cheek, announces something new. He can feel her…through the ether of time and space…and he remembers her.

He’s pretty sure he’s never met her, yet it’s as if he’s known her all his life. He’s confident she’d never recognize him anyway, for now he is not a man she’d grow to love. He knows her, somehow, and he feels her throughout the ordinary jumps of the beating heart within his chest. He puts his hand on the glass that separates them, and waves of emotion flow around him.

There is so much he can feel.

He can feel her hand grasp his, and pull him in closer. He can hear her laughter as they walk down a pathway lightly shrouded with fallen leaves. He can see the white wisps of breath leave her mouth as she speaks until, finally, she can’t take it anymore as she leans in to kiss him. He can taste her Soul in the kiss, and feel his own body respond to the undeniable energy between them.

And such is the flow, the memory, the dream. He can feel her head on his chest, and the feel of her naked skin snuggled up nicely next to his. He can see her eyes look into his as he shares his wisdom, then her hand as it caresses his chest, his stomach, until…

They make love in the moonlight sneaking sweetly through their bedroom window. He basks in her pleasure, knowing the gift he is giving her is being returned in the heighten senses of his body. He feels every bit of her, every sweet cell, and his own respond eagerly to their truth.

“Move along, you bum” came the demand from behind. The man awakens, or sinks back into their dream, whichever. He looks again into those eyes of true love, then turns away to go about forgetting.

Love, an often forgotten game between human hearts, is never so remembered than by a lover alone with his own thoughts. There, he remembers every detail, every minute scent and whisper, every dark and cold reality. Then, one day, he stumbles upon a picture, and he loses himself in a moment of pure revival.

And, somewhere, a woman dressed beneath the torn and tattered weaves of yesterday, stares at his image through a single pane of glass. A lonely tear rolls down her weathered face as she remembers his words, his strength, and his fingertips as they gently played around her skin. She can remember grasping at his hand, and pulling him in closer while she laughed at the stories he would tell. She can remember the leaves falling lightly on their path, and the colors of autumn gently painting their moment’s picture. She remembers the passion, the love, and the power of a man whose eyes simply held her in the sweetest chaos.

Perhaps they’ll pass each other on their beaten paths. They may not recognize each other, but what their eyes can’t see their souls will surely know. Eyes bent down at the lowly ground will rise up into a glance, into  a moment, and everything will stop. Everything. As eyes finally meet, and as two lonely tears begin to fall, a spring flower blooms and a butterfly announces the moment of their arrival.

The rest, they say, is history. Sweet, beautiful history.

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